


I Draw A Line (To Your Heart From Mine)

by seapigeon



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Amputee Bucky Barnes, Artist Steve Rogers, Enemies to Lovers, M/M, Non-Serum Steve Rogers/Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes | Shrinkyclinks, War Veteran Bucky Barnes, art therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-18
Updated: 2019-04-18
Packaged: 2020-01-15 18:18:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18504457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seapigeon/pseuds/seapigeon
Summary: Bucky hates art therapy.Sure, he used to love art, but that was...before.  So if this tiny, annoyingly insightful instructor could just let him coast, that would be great.Unfortunately, that doesn't seem to be Steve Rogers' style.





	I Draw A Line (To Your Heart From Mine)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bangyababy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bangyababy/gifts).



> Here's another ficlet for Shrinkyclinks Fest 2019, based on a prompt from bangyababy!
> 
> The FANTASTIC prompt #42 was: "Steve's an artist who has been hired by the VA to teach art therapy to vets. Bucky is the surly guy in his Monday Wednesday class that actually has some talent."
> 
> Thanks to agentcoop and daphneblithe for encouragement and beta services!!
> 
> Enjoy!!!!

Bucky tries not to be nervous as he steps out of his Uber.  He isn’t sure why he’s doing this. It seemed like a great idea when he heard about the art show, but now that he’s standing outside the little gallery and taking in its careful eclecticism, he’s not so sure.

Mainly, he doesn’t know what he’s supposed to say or do if he runs into the artist.  He doesn’t  _ like _ the artist.  He’s not here for support, and he definitely doesn’t have an art-buyer’s wallet.  He’s here to see what this guy can do with brush and canvas.

_ You’re here to see where he gets off telling you anything about your art. _

It’s spiteful and he knows it.  But this guy, this  _ Steve,  _ hit a nerve.

He’s the antithesis of everything the Army stands for.  Small, weak,  _ sensitive _ . A goddamned hipster.  Why would they ever hire him?  Why would they think this pretentious guy with his glasses and his dual art and counseling degrees could do anything for people like Bucky?

_ Now why don’t you draw something you don’t think I want to see,  _ he said, like he knows anything about it.

_ Why don’t you try your left hand? _

Because it’s not his fucking hand, that’s why.  It’s this ugly metal prosthesis that’s supposed to replace his own flesh and blood, be better than a human arm, or so Stark says.  Stark’s another one who doesn’t understand that one’s original parts are always the best. Or maybe he does, and he’s just so used to wrapping himself in iron that he’s started to believe his own propaganda.

He only agreed to do this art class so Natasha would leave him alone.  She isn’t wrong that he used to love art and spend hours, even days, on hyper-realistic drawings and paintings that fetched him a decent buck at flea markets and in commissions.  But that was before the Army, before he discovered his steady hands were good at shooting long-range guns, too. Before he blew anyone’s brains out. Before anyone attempted to return the favor and was off by about twelve inches.

He isn’t the same person anymore.  And he fucking resents anyone trying to tell him that he could be.

A couple files past him and into the gallery, startling him out of his thoughts.  He should have planned this better. If he’d asked Natasha to come with him, he could pretend she dragged him there, should he be faced with the prospect of actually talking to the artist.  Alone, it would be clear why he came.

_ To size you up. _

“Nice to see you, Bucky.”

Oh, fuck.

He looks up, and there’s Steve.  Bucky blinks. He looks very different than he usually does at the VA.  There, he wears khakis and sweaters, a wardrobe as boring as his stale insights.  Right now he’s wearing short sleeves, revealing arms covered in tattoos, and there’s a ring in his nose.  Even his hair is different. The whole look is much more punk than soccer dad, and…

And it’s doing something for Bucky.

Curveball.

“Hi,” he forces out.  Steve has to know Bucky doesn’t like him.  He’s probably known since day one. Bucky has not been on his best behavior, and he phones it in most classes with something that requires no thought or reflection.  But Steve persists in being personable, in trying to draw Bucky out, motivate him, challenge him. He persists in  _ trying _ .  The guy doesn’t back down, Bucky’ll give him that.

_ If you don’t like it why do you keep going? _ Natasha asked.   _ It’s not like it’s for a grade, and you’re not paying for it. _

“You all right?”

“I’m fine,” Bucky grunts.

Steve’s stance shifts minutely.  “Look, I saw you out here, and if you’re actually here for my show and not just walking by, I wanted to warn you.  There’s a fair bit of graphic medical imagery in some of the works.”

He snorts.  “Think I can’t take a little slicing and dicing?”

Steve’s blue eyes are too perceptive.  “Sure you can. But there’s a difference between being able to tolerate something and wanting to.”

Ain’t that the fuckin’ truth.

Bucky shuffles his feet.  “Did, uh, anyone else from class come?”  He’d announced it last class, said everyone was welcome to stop by, but most don’t seem the type.  Except maybe Maria.

“Yeah, Maria was here earlier.  She was on the way to dinner with her partner.”  Steve glances back toward the building. “I better get back in there.  Have a good night, Bucky.” He nods and fades into the gallery.

Bucky waffles for another ten minutes, leaning against the building next door and smoking a cigarette.  

_ Graphic medical imagery, huh.  What’s that for you, pal, a needle stick?  A scraped knee? Let’s see how fuckin’ delicate you think I am.  _

He goes in.  Steve is at the far end of the gallery, back to Bucky.  Good. It’s probably better that he doesn’t see the scorn that Bucky knows he won’t be able to keep off his face.  

Huh. It’s photography, drawings, and paintings.  Look at Steve, so versatile. He smirks to himself.  It only lasts a second, though, when he starts to absorb the subject matter.

Steve finds him in front of the last piece, gaping, untold minutes later.

“Did you actually--?”

“Thread ribbon through my sternal incision?  God, my surgeon would’ve killed me.” He chuckles.  “It’s glue and makeup.” His smile fades a little. “You’re supposed to feel like it’s a gift, but mostly I felt like I’d been hit by a bus.  This was me trying to remind myself to be grateful.”

Bucky’s still stuck.  “You...had a heart transplant.”

Steve nods.

Suddenly, he feels like a  _ huge _ asshole.  And this huge asshole has to  _ go. _

  
  


He doesn’t go to class on Monday.  He’s too mortified.

This whole time he was shitting on the guy, secure in the notion that he couldn’t possibly know.  He couldn’t understand what Bucky had been through, and that meant he had no right to say or ask anything.

For the tenth time, Bucky stares at his prosthetic.

_ You’re supposed to feel like it’s a gift. _

Steve knows exactly what he’s been through.  He even understands the guilt.

One of the other pieces at the art show was a self portrait, and Steve was frail and sickly, blue-tinted, electrodes and wires protruding from the canvas.  He was holding one of those cut out paper garlands, arms stretched wide. The garland was full of images of someone else’s life. He’d crafted it in layers of paint and paper and textile, and the meaning was clear.

_ Someone had to die for me to live. _

It’s not too different from the feeling that twists up his insides in the middle of the night sometimes, the voice that whispers  _ all those people are dead because of you, and somehow you’re still here, you piece of shit. _

He’s had a lot of therapy.  He knows how to handle these thoughts and feelings.  He’s been  _ functional _ , holding down a job, spending time with family and a select few friends, taking his medications.  But it’s clear now that he’s not out of the woods. This alien arm, and the chip on his shoulder, the feeling that he doesn’t have a right to be who he was  _ before _ …

Bucky drops his forehead on the table.  He has to apologize. He’d rather do  _ anything _ else, but Steve has been trying to help him and got nothing but attitude for his troubles.

_ You can lead the horse to water… _

Bucky takes out the sketchpad Natasha bought him.  He’s never used it, but he sure as hell is going to use it now.  Taking a deep breath, he picks up a pencil. It looks strange in his left hand, fragile grasped in the cold metal.  It occurs to him that maybe it’s the metal that gets to him, hard and cold, just like a gun.

He has to talk to Stark.  If he can invent a prosthetic like this, he can invent a way to make it not look like a battering ram.  Just because he’s Iron Man doesn’t mean everyone else has to be.

Bucky bites his lip, and then he draws.

  
  


He catches Steve at the end of the Wednesday class.  Everyone else is gone and the blond is cleaning up. By the looks of it, they did some form of collage.

“Uh,” he says, the personification of eloquence.

Steve glances up, and something like relief passes over his face.  “Bucky. Hey. You missed vision board day.”

He can’t pretend at enthusiasm, and Steve laughs.  He’s acting like Bucky didn’t flee from his show on Friday and then skip out on two classes in a row.  Bucky finds his voice.

“Sorry I freaked out.”

“It’s okay.”  He tosses out the absolution like it’s easy, and maybe it is.  “How are you?”

Bucky ignores the question.  “I redid everything.”

Steve stops what he’s doing.  “What?”

“All the prompts. I redid them. You were right, I wasn’t trying.  I was going through the motions. So I redid them.” He puts the sketchpad down on the table and nudges it toward Steve with his fingertips.  It had been some kind of torture, but the left hand  _ could _ draw.  It had never been about the stupid prosthetic, anyway.

Haltingly, Steve reaches out.  He glances up at Bucky as if he’s seeking permission.

“Open it,” Bucky says, impatient, rattled.

Steve does, but his eyes stay on Bucky.  “Have you slept?”

“A little.”

“You didn’t have to do this.”  His fingers brush over the drawings, thoughtful and reverent.  They aren’t pretty, most of them, not in technique or subject matter.  But they are honest.

“Yes I did.”

Steve closes the sketchbook and pats the cover, eyes shining.  “I’m proud of you.” It’s a cheesy fucking line, but coming from him, it’s unreasonably believable.

“What  _ for _ ?” Bucky demands, itchy with conflicting emotions.  “I’ve been wasting your time.”

“No, you’ve been wasting your own time.  But I think we’re on the same page now.” He slides the book back toward Bucky.  “You should go home and get some sleep.”

Funny, how just now he starts to feel how tired he is.  “Yeah. I will.” His feet don’t move. “Look, there’s...” he falters, shoves his hands in his pockets.  “There’s a paint night? At my friend’s bar?”

“When?” Steve’s smile is radiant.

“Next Thursday,” Bucky mumbles.

“E-mail me the info.  I’ll be there.”

“Hokay,” Bucky says to his shoes, and flees again.

  
  


Steve is true to his word.  He shows up for Paint Night, and Bucky is starting to realize that in the absence of his grandpa VA clothes, he is, as they say, a bit of a snack.  If Steve notices his attention, he doesn’t make anything of it; he just focuses on painting a feather like everyone else. He encourages Bucky along the way, talking him down when the prosthetic won’t do quite what he wants.

“It would be fun to paint it,” he says, gesturing at the metal plates.

“Stark would murder me.”

Steve shrugs, a dare in his eyes.   

Yes, Steve Rogers is a snack, and he’s also a little shit.

  
  


They’re buzzed, and they’re painting his arm.

“He’s gonna kill me,” Bucky repeats.

Steve rolls his eyes.  “It’s Crayola, it washes off.”  He frowns. “You  _ can  _ get this thing wet, right?”

Bucky wants so, so badly to say something inappropriate. Instead, he chokes out, “Yep.”

“Well, that’s a relief.”  Steve raises his hand with a flourish.  “There, done. What do you think?”

Bucky looks in the mirror.  He did the hand and wrist, painting bright pink nails onto the fingertips, tattoos above the knuckles (JERK), a tacky gold chain around the wrist. Steve did everything above that and boy, does it show.  His arm is wrapped in a spiral of iridescent scales, flowers outlined in black in between. It’s fucking gorgeous. He doesn’t want to wash it off.

“Did you design your tattoos?” he can’t stop himself from asking.

“Some of them,” Steve answers.  “Do you have any?”

“No.  My mom would die.”

“Mm.  No matricide, good move.”  He rests his chin in his palm and smiles easily at Bucky.

And Bucky, he hasn’t wanted to kiss anyone this much since before he left on his first tour of duty.

“What  _ would _ you get, if your mother’s wellbeing didn’t depend on it?”  Is it just his imagination, or has Steve drifted closer?

“Something by Magritte,” he sighs.

“This is not a pipe,” Steve quips, eyebrow rising. “I didn’t take you for a surrealist.”

It’s all surreal.  He’s so close; Bucky’s definitely not imagining it.

“I’d get The Companions of Fear,” he says, and he’s not sure where the certainty comes from.  Liquid courage, probably. “To remind me that good can come out of the suffering. I just have to be wise enough to see it.”

Steve’s face does something funny.  “That’s incredible,” he whispers. Their knees are touching.  He wants Steve to draw on his other arm, the real one, watch the play of his hands on his skin.  He wants to draw on Steve, but there’s isn’t much visible real estate without ink. That gets him thinking about what’s under his clothes.  Where  _ isn’t _ he tattooed?

Steve’s thumb traces over the pulse point of the metal arm.  And just when he thinks it’s going to happen, that Steve might actually lean closer and kiss him, he seems to come to his senses.  Steve pulls back slowly, cheeks flushed.

“I should go.”  He blinks a few times.  His eyelashes are impossibly long.  “I had fun.”

“Me too,” Bucky says, wishing he could rewind time and initiate the kiss himself.  “Good night.”

  
  
  


Class on Monday is good, but hard.  It’s all about flaws. Lord knows he has a few, and it’s never been his favorite thing to face them, let alone try to depict them on paper, but he knows he has to try.

Steve completes most of the prompts along with them.  He doesn’t always share his art when they’re finished, but this time he does.

“This one’s all about honesty,” he says, sticking his paper to the board with magnets.  “Acknowledging what you need to work on, and accepting yourself in spite of the things you don’t do well.  Me, I have a temper. And I don’t know when to let things go.” He’s drawn a bonfire, and a skinny dog gnawing on a bone next to it.  “Sometimes, I hold onto my emotions and let them fester.” A garbage can, overflowing. “And sometimes I feel like I have to help everyone.  Like I can’t have boundaries or say no.” That one’s a man on a rack, grimacing. “Anybody identify with any of these?”

Several hands go up.  Yeah, Bucky definitely gets the emotional festering.  He’s guilty of that from time to time.

“If anyone wants to share, feel free,” Steve says.  “But nobody should feel obligated.”

A few people talk.  And normally Bucky would rather die than say anything in this kind of scenario, but a realization hits him, listening to everyone confess their flaws, and he  _ has _ to say it out loud.  He raises his hand. Steve nods at him, and he says,

“Since I got back, I don’t think I deserve good things.”

“Amen,” someone mutters, and there are nods around the room. 

“That’s one of those intrusive thoughts, a way our guilt manifests.  It doesn’t become a flaw until we let it affect our relationship with ourselves, and the people around us.”  He’s looking right at Bucky, as if he’s speaking only to him. “That’s exactly why awareness of our flaws and thought patterns is so important.  We can control them if we’re conscious of them. Nice work, everyone.”

Class breaks up from there, and everyone seems oddly uplifted in spite of the focus on their less than savory qualities.  As Bucky is packing up, Steve touches his elbow and says, “Wait a minute for me?”

He does, an odd little thrill in his chest.  When everyone is gone, Steve sits down across from him.  He looks very serious, and the thrill starts to give way to nerves.

“Bucky,” he says, tone grave.  “I don’t want you to come to my class anymore.”

“W-what?” he stammers.  Panic flares in his chest.  Oh no. Oh, no. He made it weird the other day, inviting him to Paint Night, even though he didn’t have any intention of it becoming whatever it became.   He overstepped. There are boundaries,  _ fuck _ , Steve literally just said he sometimes feels like he can’t say no--

“Bucky.  Look at me.”

He does, willing himself not to show his devastation.

“I don’t want you to come to my class because I want to go out with you again.  As a date. If you’re into that.”

“You _ asshole _ ,” he blurts.  He wants to punch him and make out with him at the same time.  He has a feeling that it’ll become a familiar dichotomy.

Steve wilts a little and drops his gaze.  His posture goes tight. “Okay. Okay, that was inappropriate, I’m sorry.  I...I’ll ask someone else to take over the class so you won’t be uncomfortable. I’m really sorry.”

“Steve. Look at  _ me _ ,” he says, echoing him.  Steve bravely meets his eyes; he can’t quite conceal the hurt there.  Bucky reaches for his hand. “I would  _ love _ to go on a date with you.”

For a second, Steve doesn’t believe him.  Then the stormcloud starts to clear. 

“But you said--”

“I thought  _ you _ were going to say that you only agreed to go to the Paint Night with me to be nice, and that I made it weird!  Then you ask me on a fucking date!”

“Well, you’re definitely weird,” Steve says, recovered enough to be glib.

Bucky raises an eyebrow.  “You want that date or not, Mr. Rogers?”

“No deal, if you’re gonna call me Mr. Rogers.”

“Mr. Rogers was an American treasure,” Bucky says in mock horror.

“Yeah, he was, but I’m not him, and nobody’s ever told me I’m a treasure,” Steve laughs.  “Usually the opposite.”

Bucky looks him dead in the eye and says, “You know what they say.  One man’s trash is another man’s treasure.”

Steve punches him in the arm.  “Oh,  _ I’m _ the asshole?”

“That was a compliment!”  Bucky leans forward on his elbows, happy enough to be bold.  “Can I kiss you now?”

Steve’s moving before he finishes the question.  “Mm-hmmph,” he says, the end of it smothered against Bucky’s lips.

  
  
  


It’s been a few months. Steve has a whole new crop of people at the VA, and Bucky is actually working for Stark now.  He finally dug up the courage to give some honest, pointed feedback about the metal arm, and after he was done making snappy retorts about how robot arms are cooler, Stark offered him a job.  

Bucky is now the hospital liaison for Stark Industries Prosthetics and Orthotics Division.  It isn’t always easy, seeing people at the start of the journey, because he knows how painful and difficult it is.  But he also knows that it gets better, and with his suggestions, Stark is coming up with some frankly amazing prosthetic technology.

Like the one he’s wearing now.  It looks so much more like a real arm, no metal in sight.  And the fine motor attenuation is out of this world. Bucky grins down at his drawing.  It’s done.

It’s Steve’s birthday.  He was going to make him breakfast, but Bucky is too impatient.  He sits on the side of the bed next to him and gently shakes Steve awake.

“Muh?” Steve says.  He’s usually awake before Bucky on account of having to take his meds, but every once in a while he’ll turn off the alarm and sleep in.  It’s an odd little pleasure, seeing him like this, sleep-mussed and half awake.

“Happy birthday,” Bucky says, leaning down to kiss his temple.

Steve hums, then stretches.  “Wha time izzit?”

“A little after nine.”

He sighs happily.  That’s a real luxury, for someone who is almost always up by seven.

“Hey.  I made you something.”

“Chocolate chip scones?” Steve asks, voice dreamy.

Bucky can’t help but smile.  “No, but I can make those, too, if you want.”  He reaches behind him and picks up the drawing.  It’s taken a long time, longer than it would have before, but when he impulse-snapped the picture of Steve while he slept, he knew this would be his first foray back into hyper-realism.

Steve shoots up, eyes wide and excited, a ludicrous smile on his face.

“Bucky!  It’s amazing!”  He leans closer and takes in all the details, delighted.  His fingers trail over the delicately rendered shape of his scar.  “I love it,” he says. His expression is becoming less delight and more bludgeoned with emotion by the second.  He handles it like he handles everything; by punching right through to the heart of it. “I love  _ you.” _

They haven’t said it yet, but Bucky’s been ready for a while.  Saying, “I love you, too,” is the easiest thing he’s ever done.  Well, next to letting Steve tug him back into the bed to fuck the everloving shit out of him with ferocious tenderness.  There’s no other way to describe it.

They lay there panting, sticky but content, and Steve can’t stop grinning.  What a dope. Takes one to know one, he supposes, because he can’t stop, either.  And he’s supposed to be baking him scones, isn’t he, but he’s so comfortable, and no big deal if he just closes his eyes for a second--

  
  


It’s noon.  Crap.

The apartment is quiet, which could mean any number of things, but he’s gonna be mad at himself if Steve had to get his own breakfast.  He probably did, because he has to have food with some of his pills. Best laid plans.

Bucky gathers his clothes, but he doesn’t get far before he notices something on his chest.  He moves closer to the mirror.

There, on his left pec, is a temporary tattoo.  It’s a red ribbon, tied in a perfect bow. He really must have been out to not notice Steve applying it.  Or writing underneath it.

_ Thank you. _

“Thank  _ you _ ,” Bucky whispers, and heads for the kitchen.  It’s never too late for scones.


End file.
